Heal
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Wilson's selfdestruction beats House's, and through it, they reach out for the wholeness they've gone so long without. No slash. Please read and review.


A/N: So after posting "**Reversal"** on LJ, I got some requests to expand on the basic concept. I tried it out here, and I suppose I'll be continuing it, I don't know.

I decided to do something interesting. I wrote this first part in poem format. I don't know if I'll keep it up beyond this, but we'll see. **I used a whole bunch of dividers because it's the only way I can separate the stanzas.** Sorry for any inconvenience.

No slash intended! Please read and review.

**Listen to: "Broken" by Seether and Amy Lee.**

_

* * *

_

_Heal_

* * *

I. 

He's waited long enough. Three days. Horrific imagination.

It's 1 o'clock in the morning, and he doesn't care. He can't sleep

Without knowing what the hell is going on. He finds 32B, pounds on the door,

Beats the handle and lock with his cane. Heads poke out of other doors,

Grumbling about the noise, one man calling him an

Asshole. "Open the God damn door,"

He demands. He's seen Wilson's car in the parking lot. Finally, he throws his shoulder

Into the wood and wins. He throws it shut before the landlord reaches him, already bitching

About the time and property damage.

* * *

"Wilson! Why the fuck won't you answer my phone calls? I know you're in here!"

He hobbles around the unpacked boxes, struggling in the dark. He finds no lamp

Silhouettes, not one. Fuck.

* * *

Kitchen, living room, guest bathroom. He stops to travel there,

Unsettled by the white tiles, hungry mirror, and plastic shower curtain. "Wilson!

You're being an idiot! I know you're in here, you can't hide from me!" No,

neither of them

Could ever hide. He hobbles down the hall, back toward the front door, and faces the stairs.

* * *

Pain or Wilson. Thoughtless choice.

* * *

"I'm going to kick your ass! You know stairs are a bitch. God damn it," he says the last words

To himself. His leg sears with pain, no matter how slow or careful he is. He stops twice,

His breathing heavier

And heavier with each step. He throws his cane up onto the landing. Why is Wilson hiding from him? Isn't that his job?

* * *

He has to stop once he reaches the second floor, and he calls out for the oncologist

Again. No answer. In and out of the second bathroom and spare room, he weaves.

He doesn't overlook the closet. At the end, shrouded in blackness, is the bedroom –

The door cracked open just enough

To breathe. He waits

To hear something, almost afraid. "Why the hell do you have to be so

Aggravating?"

* * *

He flings it open, triumph swelling in his chest,

But it plummets as the sounds of choking

Register, the shaking outline

Of loafers and slack-covered ankles

Too far above the floor.

* * *

"Fuck!"

* * *

And he throws the cane aside, hurrying,

Hurrying, stripped of the apathy he lives in

And compelled

Not by interest

But fear. (And it reminds him why he resists

Love in the first place).

* * *

The gentle hands grab at the rope frantically, wedding ring

Gone, and House recognizes even the gurgle.

He digs into his pocket for the knife

His father sent him last Christmas,

And for once, he's grateful his father is that sort of man. Still in the dark,

He reaches up and swipes at the rope,

As Wilson swings himself back and forth,

His legs slowing down and his face deepening

In the blue tinge.

* * *

"Fuck! Come on!" House cries,

Working the knife desperately,

As Wilson grows quieter

And quieter. "Please," House says,

Losing more and more of himself. "Please, please,

Shit."

* * *

The knife side-fucks the last bit of rope with an alien sound,

And House's leg threatens

To snap, fold, forsake

Him. He doesn't know if he's pleading for more time

From the muscles

Or Wilson. It

* * *

Severs, and Wilson's motionless body

Thumps onto the carpet. House collapses,

His leg burning

To make him hiss.

* * *

"Wilson."

* * *

He drags himself to the floppy hair, pulling the rope away from that innocent

Neck and pushing the other man onto his back. "Wilson! God damn it!

Wake the fuck up!"

* * *

He folds his good leg underneath himself, sitting up to shake those

Beaten shoulders that could no longer bear

The world's weight alone. Even in the dim window light,

House can see the death marks. "Wilson! Wilson!"

* * *

_Don't tell me I'm late. Don't you fucking do this to me._

* * *

His bitter fingertips embrace one wrist,

Searching for a pulse as if it were love

Or relief. The absence

Stings of betrayal more than Stacy ever had.

* * *

"Damn it! Fuck!" he tilts Wilson's head, flips out his phone.

"911, what is your emergency?"

* * *

"I've got a 36-year-old male, no pulse, asphyxiation.'

He doesn't hear himself blurt the street

Or apartment number. His brain shut down on the five

Beats of_ asphyxiation_,

And it may be the only word he remembers

For years.

* * *

The phone glows only for a moment,

Where it lands on the floor. He breathes into Wilson

Alone

And counts to three, assaulting the belly that just might be

Draining of warmth

From the inside out, a bleed that House

Can't stop, no matter how brilliant

He is.

* * *

"Wilson,"

He says,

Softly now. Breath,

One

Two

Three.

* * *

Breath.

One

Two

Three.

"_Please_."

* * *

And for the first time

In five years,

His eyes leak

Their immunity to pain

Away.

He feels this fear like frozen needles

In every nerve – losing the only person

Who has stood to love him this long,

Even though everyone has always known

He never deserved it. He can't accept

The loss of company in walking,

Eating, working, saving,

And suffering. They were just watching movies

And drinking beer last week.

They were just arguing a few days

Before. The ties, the Tupperware,

The post-its, the first number on speed dial,

The pictures stored away in his computer

Next to the folders that read "Stacy" and "Porn" –

Just a chunk of all the reminders. He didn't want

To start saving mugs and garbage

Yet. He's not ready.

He's not ready to be alone.

* * *

He picks up his pace,

Trying to resist

The despair

Like the damn good addict

He is, cursing

And cursing as if it will do him good.

* * *

He grips the limp hair

A little too hard

On purpose. And he pushes

Down on the belly

Too desperately

For someone who doesn't need

Anyone. He refuses

To surrender

His last hope, here

On the crushed carpet.

* * *

The sirens enter his earshot and grow louder,

Making him shudder, as Wilson refuses to give him

A second chance –

* * *

Until his friend splits the dark

With a gasp, a coughing fit that restores

House's stability. "Jesus."

And he's not even a Christian.

* * *

"House?"

It's a high he's never experienced, the fastest rush.

He sighs and trembles, finally feeling like God.

Thank God.

* * *

Wilson lies back, coughing –

Weak voice and fading brain. House looks toward the door, hearing the paramedics

Approaching. He waits until he knows he has three seconds

Left, and pulls Wilson into a hug, whispering

"How the fuck could do you this?"

* * *

Strangers pull them apart,

And House attempts to rise,

While they strap Wilson onto a gurney

And give him oxygen.

House leans heavily

On the bed, almost doubting

His ability to walk. He grabs his cane from the covers

And gains his footing, watching the faceless men

Take Wilson away.

* * *

"Princeton Plainsboro,"

He calls out, not knowing if they'll listen.

He's still burning,

And he smirks

With the tracks in his face,

Cane-arm quaking. He'll sleep with the dangling image

In his mind

Forever.


End file.
